Why Life's a Joke
by marinoa
Summary: Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy are simply trying to live their respective lives, but apparently someone up there has decided not to make it easy for them. FrUK, oneshot, AU.


**Why Life's a Joke**

_**or**_

_**How Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy Got Acquainted with One Another**_

The car wreck most definitely was not Arthur's fault.

To begin with, just using the term 'car wreck' was plain exaggeration. More suitable expression would be a 'silly mishap', or a 'tiny accident' at most, and even those expressions were stretching it. That was because, first, the mishap had happened on a remote road somewhere in the countryside where hardly anyone ever even drove, universal damage thus being practically zero; and second, only a nitpicker would say that a couple of scratches on a car were the end of the world. Funnily though, the other counterpart of the incident seemed to differ from Arthur's opinion – apparently he was one of the said idiots.

"_Putain idiot, ce que l'enfer pensiez-vous_?" the driver, a young man, yelled as he emerged from his damaged Citroën like an angry wasp of its nest.

And that was the third and the biggest reason why the whole thing was not Arthur's fault: it had happened in France. So how on earth would Arthur, pray tell, be the one to blame if the _whole nation_ had no idea of on which side of the road they should really be driving? The accident was not Arthur's fault and so he would claim until the Judgement Day – end of the matter.

"There's no need to be yelling like that," he retorted instead – in English, of course. He had not lived in France long enough to be using the language on daily basis; he only deigned to switch to French if English wasn't understood (not that his French was always quite understood, either).

"_Anglais_?" The French driver scoffed, his piercing blue eyes shooting icicles at Arthur. "Of course, that explains this perfectly."

Clearly, this particular Frenchman was definitely of the worst kind. "Excuse me?" Arthur asked, anger instantly flaring within him. Had the driver been a little politer, the Englishman might have considered admitting that he _might_ have turned on a wrong lane, but this Frenchman was visibly _asking for it_.

"I do understand if you Englishmen want to flee your pathetic rainy little island," the man continued in his disgustingly _French_ accent, his arms flailing around as he vented, "but stay out of the cultured world until you learn how civilised people drive, _sil'vous plait!_"

"What?" Arthur couldn't believe his ears. That fucker had some nerve! "That's pretty insolent, coming from a slimy frog like yourself!"

"At least I can _drive_! Look at my car now!"

"What's there to look at? Yes, it's a bit scratched. Is it my fault that you don't know on which side of the road you should drive?"

"A bit scratched, you say? _Merde_, my front door is practically _in__side_ the car now!"

"Quit acting as if the world just ended and be happy that the scratch is on the passenger's side!"

"Oh, I am very happy indeed," the Frenchman uttered venomously through his gritted teeth. Arthur could see that his fists were trembling in suppressed anger. "And if you decline your guiltiness in the matter and refuse to pay for the damage, we are taking this to the police."

That was how Arthur Kirkland first met Francis Bonnefoy.

xXx

_France is all love and sunshine, they said – you will love it and it will love you. Oh right, love must be fucking miserable if that's what this is._

Perhaps in summer there was sunshine and love, but in the darkest month of winter, there certainly wasn't. It was cold, either raining or snowing, the roads were slippery, the people wore grumpy expressions on their faces whenever they were out (Arthur's own grumpy face was just one among the others), and it felt like sun was a distant myth, if even that. True, in England, the weather wasn't much better, but at least it would be in _England _and thus perfectly normal and cosy. But this was France, which was marketed as the nest of sunshine and love, so Arthur should get his money back for an awful weather like that.

As his demands were not exactly taken seriously, he settled for the second best option: a bottle of wine to keep him company and help him imagine that it was English ice on which he slipped every now and then.

The local grocery shop was on a verge of closing when Arthur hurried in for his precious wine, and it appeared he wasn't the only one on such a mission; the wine shelf was crowded with last-minute purchasers. Apparently even frogs couldn't tolerate their own country without alcohol, the Englishman noted with grim satisfaction. Now, should he have some red or white wine, or go for some whisky? Settling for some red wine (perhaps the French climate was messing with his head), Arthur pushed himself into the crowd with his deliberate elbow technique.

When the bottle of choice was safe in his gloved hands and he turned to leave, something caught his foot and he stumbled. Fortunately he managed to keep his balance – but the bottle slipped from his hands and crashed on the floor.

Or maybe not quite on the floor – it landed partly on someone's foot. Arthur saw in slow motion how the glass bottle broke and the red liquid splashed around, decorating the white trousers of the unlucky victim of the accident in red. Well, blimey. Arthur heard the man yelp and raised his eyes to his face – and froze.

"_Merde_!_ Regarder où vous allez_! _Vous avez ruiné mon pantalon_!"

_Fuck it_, Arthur thought._ I should have taken the whiskey._

It was the man from the little car accident a fortnight or so ago. When the Englishman raised his eyes to the Frenchman's face, the man, too, froze for a second in recognition. "_You!_" he then cried in both disbelief and anger. "Well now this makes sense! First you ruin my car, then you ruin my expensive trousers! Have you decided to make my life miserable, or is it just how you Englishmen are?"

"I have no interest in your miserable life whatsoever, it isn't even worth ruining!" Arthur countered, embarrassment turning into irritation. Once again, he would have apologised... had this man not overreacted again. But no, this Frenchie could apparently bring the worst out of him. "How about you quit coming in my way all the time?"

"Coming in your way? Do you think I'm doing this on purpose?"

"You seem to enjoy yelling and whining so much that I wouldn't be surprised."

The situation might have escalated into an outright fistfight, but that was when the two men were interrupted by a worker of the shop.

"_Monsieur_, excuse me, but you need to pay for the broken bottle."

"And my trousers," the fucking frog muttered.

"I don't give a shit about your trousers, it was an accident," Arthur snapped at him; he wasn't in a particularly good mood at the moment. It wasn't that he had money to waste on every broken bottle or ruined trousers every day.

In the end he paid for the lost wine, for whiskey he decided to have instead and grudgingly also for the wine of the whiny Frenchman to make him shut up.

Yes, Arthur _definitely_ hated France.

xXx

Marianne was doing it on purpose, he knew. She was bitter and angry at Francis, and took every little chance to get revenge on him for breaking up with her. Francis knew she wasn't particularly sad about them not being together any more, it was just her pride that had been wounded because he had broken up with her before she had mustered enough determination to do so herself. And now she was making him pay for it.

It had been almost two months since Marianne had moved out, but she had been decidedly slow in taking her stuff away just to spite Francis, and, just like now, she used him to carry some things for her. "Oh, Francis, could you please bring me the box with my books? It appears I need them now and my brother can't help with it right now so could you carry them to my place?" And Francis, not one to leave a lady in distress (despite knowing perfectly well what she was up to – but he would not let it be said that he was a fucker when it came to partners or ex-partners), was to humour her. Too bad Marianne knew that his car was still being repaired, so he had to use public transportation to get to her apartment, which was a shitty job when carrying a heavy box of heavy books. Besides, the ground was slippery, so carrying heavy things was a bit tricky.

Getting off the bus with some trouble but surprisingly gracefully nonetheless, Francis started towards the block-of-flats where Marianne had moved. It wasn't that house, not that either, it should be right...

"Damn her..." Francis muttered as he saw a staircase, too long for his liking, going down to the inner yard, where the entrance to the building was. That woman was evil. For a fleeting moment Francis entertained a thought of sending the box with books down the stairs on their own accord and letting Marianne pick them up by herself, but then a man walking ahead of him turned to go down the stairs, and so Marianne was saved the trouble; Francis didn't want to knock anyone off with the heavy box, did he? So, with a heavy sigh, the Frenchman took a better hold of his burden and went after the man.

_Hold on a second_... Francis frowned. Was there something familiar about that man? Due to his winter attire, it was hard to tell, and he had his back towards the Frenchman anyway.

And then the inevitable happened.

It was an accident; Francis took yet one step down, but treacherous winter had left a particularly icy cover right where he was about to set his foot. The moment he put his whole weight on it, he slipped and his feet gave away beneath the extra weight of books. Francis had quick reflexes and managed to prevent himself from falling by grabbing the railing, but the heavy box started sliding down the stairs, accelerating into faster speed. "_Faire attention!_" Francis shouted to the man, but apparently he didn't hear him, so the Frenchman could only watch how the box with books hit the man in lower calves, mid-step. The impact threw the unfortunate man out of balance and made him fall backwards on top of the box, accompanied by a surprised yelp. Fortunately, he didn't hit his head, but he seemed to have landed on his wrist in an attempt to stop himself from falling.

"_Merde_," Francis cursed, running down the stairs to check on the man. "_Êtes-vous blessé? Je suis désolé!_"

"Bloody hell," the man cursed to himself and Francis froze on his tracks. That voice, it couldn't be..?

The man looked around and saw Francis. Suddenly his green orbs fuelled up with angry recognition. "_You?_"

Francis stood wordless, staring down at the already familiar Englishman. How on earth did he keep bumping into that man everywhere he went?

The Englishman yanked small earphones out of his ears – so that's why he hadn't heard Francis' warning – and glared at the Frenchman with fiery eyes. "You!" he repeated in rather visible rage. "If this is your way of getting back at me for your car, you, you sodding-!"

Francis found his voice again – _that_ man was not to yell at _him_! "I wouldn't descend that low, _monsieur_," he retorted coldly. "This was purely an accident. I slipped."

"Oh right, so you just slipped," the Englishman mimicked in a very annoying manner and winced, holding his wrist. Francis saw him tentatively wiggling his fingers and felt a pang of guilt; the Englishman was intolerable, yes, but the Frenchman didn't want to be responsible for any broken bones. Reluctantly, he reached his hand to the Englishman. "Here."

"Fuck off."

Francis' eyebrow twitched. He was trying to be nice there! "You make me wish I had knocked you off with the box on purpose," he informed the man sweetly. "Now would you be so kind as to get off my box, I need to take it somewhere."

Grumbling, the Englishman did get up, and Francis couldn't help noticing how he was shy of his right hand. Oh well, he could move his fingers just fine earlier, so it couldn't be that bad... could it? "Be my guest," the man muttered venomously. "Just be sure to stay away from me, you frog bastard."

"Then stop getting in my way, _rosbif_," Francis retorted, quoting the Englishman's own words from the last time they had met.

"I live here, so you do all the staying away!"

Great, so the insolent Englishman lived so near Marianne? "With more pleasure than you can imagine," Francis snapped in reply, taking the box in his arms again. Fortunately tape had kept it from opening even during its ride down the stairs – otherwise the grumpy Englishman would have been put to collect the books himself, hurt wrists or no.

The Englishman turned without another word and marched to the block-of-flats on their right, soon disappearing into the building. Francis entered the opposite building, to Marianne.

Wonderful. Now Francis had two reasons to avoid that particular neighbourhood.

xXx

In general, Francis Bonnefoy enjoyed his life. He was young and healthy, he had a good job with a nice pay, a perfect house in a friendly neighbourhood in his smallish town, some very good friends, and while life had called his two best friends back to their respective countries – one to Spain and one to Germany – they still kept in touch and were closer than ever. Francis had everything he could ask for, and he was happy. Everything was near perfect.

Everything, except for one damned Englishman, who had apparently taken it his mission to pop up when least expected and ruin Francis' days. He had done so almost thrice already (yes, fine, Francis did admit that the third time had been his own fault, but it didn't count), so it was only natural and expected that the _rosbif_ would strike again.

That's why, when the lift suddenly jerked to an abrupt stop, Francis' eyes immediately flew on a certain man, who just _happened_ to be in the very same lift with him.

Francis had no idea how the Englishman had done it, but it was definitely his doing. All had gone well and smoothly – Francis had stepped into an empty lift in the local shopping centre, but when it stopped on the next floor to get more people in, just who walked in with a crowd if not the Frenchman's very own nemesis? Their eyes had locked almost instantly after the doors closed, and after that there was no escape; they were forced to share the ride until the lift would reach its destination a couple of floors above. Which it never would, as Francis was to realise when suddenly, with no apparent reason, the lift simply stopped between the third and the fourth floor.

As soon as the Frenchman realised what had had happened, he shot a murderous glare at the green-eyed Englishman – to find that the man had done exactly the same. "_You,_" the Englishman's eyes seemed to message, though Francis couldn't see what right _he_ had to complain; after all, it was clearly the Englishman who attracted all bad luck. Francis countered that glare with all his might, the pointedly looked away. Had there not been other people in the lift with them, he might have (would have) made some sort of remark of the Englishman's clear ability of ruining other people's lives, but as they were not alone, the Frenchman was too tactful to open his mouth.

Other people trapped in the lift, of course, had no such reasons to remain silent. Exclamations in French immediately filled the small cabin.

"What is this?"

"I don't have time for this now..!"

"That's it! I'm going on a strike if-"

"What is the cause of this?"

On hearing the last question, Francis couldn't restrain himself. "Maybe some of us have a habit of causing accidents," was what slipped through his lips, and he cast an innocent look at the Englishman standing in the other corner of the cabin. He saw those thin lips tighten and marked the narrowing of those emerald eyes, and smirked triumphantly. His comment earned him some polite but cheerless laughter, but suddenly the Englishman's voice rose above the empty laughter.

"Or maybe some of us have a habit of attracting accidents."

Others chuckled politely at his utterance, too, but not Francis. He was too awe-struck.

He didn't know why it struck him so hard that the Englishman could speak French – and not even that bad French, either, despite his stiff accent – but it was weird to hear him speak the language. Maybe it was because so far, Francis had only heard him speak English, or perhaps because he didn't expect native English-speakers knowing any other languages but their own. Whatever it was, surprise prevented the Frenchman from coming up with another retort, and he remained quiet, only glaring at his nemesis. The Englishman instead visibly averted his eyes as much as possible, not adding anything to the general conversation in the lift.

That was before the lifted jerked slightly up and then down an inch or three. Everyone in the cabin was taken by surprise and therefore had trouble keeping their balance during such antics of the lift. Some of the people yelped – and there was one particular yelp that caught everyone's attention over the others.

"Fuck!"

_Fuck_. Plain, clear, and a very English word. Francis saw how nearly all in the cabin looked around to see which one of them was the foreigner... the _English outsider_. Francis found that sort of hilarious and smugly fixed his eyes on the Englishman. _See?_ he said with his eyes, _I'm not the only one who thinks you guilty._

But he was more right than what he had thought. One elderly woman waved her cane at the frowning Englishman. "Are you English?" she asked, ironically, in French. "Did you do this?"

The Englishman straightened proudly his posture and looked defiantly at the old woman. "Yes, I'm English," he answered, and again, in French. But this time it seemed that he was making his English accent as plain to hear as possible. Francis frowned. "But it is rather silly to suspect me guilty for this. As if I would sabotage a lift that I'm in myself."

The old woman was relentless. "Then who do you claim did this, if not you?" she demanded. Francis tried to hide his amusement, and he saw some of the other people smiling as well. Old people sure were entertaining sometimes.

The Englishman rolled his eyes. "Umm, I don't know, perhaps it's an _accident_?" He looked at the woman. "Or perhaps someone went on a strike again, as you _French people_ tend to do," he added bitingly.

The elderly woman gasped, and Francis noted that his fellow French passengers in the lift dropped their smiles. Whoops, the Englishman was taking it to the dangerous waters. Good, maybe it would teach him a lesson.

Before anyone else could utter a word, the Englishman continued, nailing his eyes on Francis'. "Or maybe _someone_ here tries to make me seem guilty."

Oh, so? The insolent little-

"And why would anyone do that?" the old woman snapped.

The Englishman was now clearly on the defensive. He saw that everyone was now listening to their conversation – and that he was alone on his side. "Perhaps to compensate for..." the man cut himself off, apparently realising that he had been about to say something that French people would not like to hear. At least that's how Francis interpreted his sudden hesitation. The Englishman swallowed and began again, "Perhaps someone here holds a grudge against me."

"And for a reason," Francis heard himself mutter. He hadn't meant for it to come out loud, but judging of the faces around him, he indeed had spoken out.

"Has this man offended you?" the old woman asked him angrily, waving her cane at the Englishman again.

"Hiding behind an old woman's skirts, are you?" the Englishman asked mockingly, switching to English. Francis frowned. This man... this man!

"I'm hiding nowhere," he uttered, switching to English as well without even noticing it. "And you'd better watch your mouth."

"First you nearly break my wrist, and now you are threatening me?"

"I'm not threatening you, you imbecile!" Francis snapped. "I'm just saying that there are a lot of people present that you might in fact insult!"

"And how is that not a threat?"

"And stop whining about your wrist! Have you forgotten what you did to my car? I only recently got it back, finally repaired! And you ruined my trousers with wine!"

"Well excuse me-"

"Can you deny it?" Francis shot. "Are you cursed or something? Or have you cursed me?"

"I wish I had!" Fury flamed in the bright green eyes of the Englishman. "This is why I hate the French, you always-"

He cut himself off, apparently realising that he had said a bit too much. Francis looked around; every pair of eyes was now on the Englishman, and none of them had a friendly look in them.

"We what?" one dark-haired man demanded in English, visibly angered by the insolent Englishman.

"I- I mean-"

"Yes, you mean what?" the young man's girlfriend joined in. Francis started unwillingly pitying the Englishman – he was clearly realising that he was in a lift with a bunch of angry Frenchmen with no way to escape. The old woman waved her cane threateningly towards the Englishman.

"I'm starting to believe that it indeed is your fault that this lift stopped," the dark-haired Frenchman uttered to the Englishman.

"And I'm starting to think that you are even more idiotic than what I had previously thought."

Well, at least the Englishman stood his ground. Even though it was rather stupid at the moment. The atmosphere in the lift was starting to intensify, and Francis didn't really look forward to possible fist fights in so cramped a space with people he didn't know.

"You will pay for what you just said!" The dark-haired Frenchman seemed to really lose his temper (not that Francis could blame him) and stepped towards the Englishman. Okay, that was enough.

"Just let it be," Francis said, placing his hand on the man's shoulder. He had a look of a thug in his eyes, and Francis didn't like that.

"Why are you defending him?" the man demanded angrily.

Francis held up his hands, appalled that such a thought had even crossed the man's mind. "I'm not defending anyone, I'm simply suggesting we avoid any fights here."

"Didn't you hear what he said?" The man had now switched to French.

"Jacques, stop," his girlfriend tried to soothe him, but he shrugged her hand off.

"Don't let his words provoke you," Francis returned, starting to get exasperated. "You are just proving yourself to be the idiot that he says you are."

"Are you a Frenchman or a pussy?" the man introduced as Jacques demanded. "Do I need to beat you up as well?" And he made a motion to punch Francis.

"Hey!" the Englishman exclaimed angrily.

"Jacques, calm down!" his girlfriend yelled.

At that point, others joined the quarrel, too.

"I do not like your language, young man," the elderly lady said sharply, pointing her cane now at the dark-haired man as a couple of other men made to position themselves between this Jacques and Francis.

"He is right," someone said, gesturing to Francis. "There is nothing to fight about."

"We should calm down. This lift is just getting on our nerves, that's all."

And so, Jacques was calmed and Arthur was forgotten by all except Francis. The Englishman had his back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest in a protective manner, and he kept warily eyeing everyone from under his huge eyebrows. Before Francis even knew it, he found himself walking to the Englishman's side.

"What do you want," the Englishman asked him in English when he leant his back against the wall beside him. Francis looked at him with a frown. "You know, I very nearly got punched because of you," he said.

"That's your own fault. Keep out of other people's business."

"It's a little bit hard in a space like this."

"Besides, you were the one who started this all by throwing your accusations at me in the first place."

Francis considered it for a moment and came to the conclusion that the Englishman was actually right, at least partly. "But you nearly got yourself into a fight only because you couldn't shut your mouth when you should have," he pointed out.

"And I repeat, you did exactly the same by joining in."

"He was going to beat you up."

The Englishman gave him an odd, questionable look, and Francis realised how his words must have sounded. "I mean," he quickly added, "that I just wanted to prevent a fight. Everyone would have been dragged in eventually in such a tiny space."

"Right."

"Yeah."

"You know," Francis said slowly, more merely thinking aloud than intentionally talking to the Englishman, "We were quite close to being on the same side at the end."

The green-eyed blond beside him shifted his weight from one leg to another and huffed. Francis got a feeling that he was fumbling for words, and realised that he himself had no idea how to continue the conversation (if it could be called that).

That was when the lift jerked and started moving again, saving the two men from a threatening awkward silence. Several people started to cheer, and in half a minute the lift stopped on the right floor and the doors opened normally.

Both Francis and the Englishman exited the lift silently, avoiding each other's gazes and doing a good job at pretending that the other didn't exist.

xXx

He was there, _again_. Couldn't a fortnight pass without chance throwing the grumpy Englishman in Francis' way? Or maybe it wasn't chance, maybe it was fate. Maybe it was some twisted way of Lady Fate enjoying herself. Maybe Francis was destined to spend the rest of his life being forced to endure frowns and obscenities of a certain angry Englishman.

This time, it happened in a grocery store. And, mind you, in a grocery store that wasn't even anywhere near the Englishman's apartment – so what was he doing there? He had no right to be shopping in Francis' corner store.

They had glimpsed one another at the same time. The Englishman had nearly dropped the carton of milk he had been holding, and Francis had been very close to bumping into another customer. Neither of them had uttered a word, and both did their best to pretend the other was not there. Francis had turned around and taken a different route to the shelf with spices, leaving the Englishman to his milk, determined to finish his shopping quickly. The Frenchman didn't need much, thank the Lord, so it would take only one minute for him to be out of the store and safe from the Englishman's curse. Besides, his date was waiting for him at the door, and Francis would rather die than ruin his chances with her by letting her see that he was plagued by an English curse.

He had already chosen the wine, now all he needed was cinnamon. Stealing a glance around the aisle to make sure he was safe, Francis quickly grabbed the first package of the sweet spice and headed for the cash desk. The queue was short, and Francis saw his date through the glass door of the shop – apparently she had gone out to wait.

Several people joined the queue behind the Frenchman, and a quick glance showed that the Englishman was among them, separated from Francis by only four or five people. He was clearly avoiding looking at the Frenchman, and Francis resolved for the same strategy. If he couldn't see the Englishman, perhaps he wouldn't be there.

The queue moved quickly, and it was his turn to pay. The cashier gave him a charming smile and announced the price of his purchases. Francis returned the smile and reached for his back pocked, where he had stuffed the note of twenty Euros, but as his fingers fumbled in the pocket, the note kept escaping him. Frowning, Francis tried his other pocket – to find it empty, as well. _Non_, it wasn't possible... He had stuffed the note in his pocket before leaving home, he surely had, so where was it now? Puzzled and growing embarrassed, Francis looked around to see if he had dropped the money on the floor, but saw nothing of the blue note.

"I had it right here in the pocket," he muttered, half as an explanation to the waiting cashier and the queuing people, half to assure himself. Damn it, why did leave his wallet at home?

"Francis?" He raised his eyes to see his date entering the shop.

"One minute," he told her hastily. "I'll be right outside." Damn him if he would ever ask his date to pay for anything!

"I'll be waiting in the car, I need to call someone," she answered and left, leaving Francis relieved that she would not be witnessing his moment of shame.

"I'm sorry," he began saying to the cashier, but then he heard a quiet 'ahem' behind himself. He turned around to see none other than his nemesis the Englishman. Of course! So _that's_ why he had lost his money – it was the Englishman's doing. "What do you want?" he angrily asked the short-haired blond in English.

The forest-green eyes of the said blond met his glare, but instead of saying anything to Francis, the Englishman stretched his hand to the cashier, passing something over to her. "Here," he said to her, and then, without looking at Francis, added to the Frenchman, "You can keep the change."

"What?" Francis turned to look at the cashier again and saw her counting the change for him. He turned to look at the Englishman again, but he had already resumed his previous place in the queue and returned to avoiding Francis' eyes.

"Here," the cashier said, giving him the change from a twenty-Euro note. "Next please."

And so Francis found himself standing behind the cash desk, more dumbfounded than ever, some coins in one of his hands and his purchases in the other. What had just happened? The Englishman, _the_ Englishman, his sworn nemesis, had helped him out? Really? Unsure of what to do, Francis just stood there, trying to catch the Englishman's eyes to at least thank him, but the green-eyed blond kept pointedly looking elsewhere. _Fine_, Francis said to himself,_ then I will wait here for you_. But he wasn't even sure himself why exactly he wanted to wait for the Englishman. To thank him, sure, but...

the door to the shop opened and Alexandrie, his date for the night, peeked in. "Oh, you are ready," she said cheerily. "Come then, there is a beautiful sunset outside!"

That was when the green eyes finally turned to Francis, but before the Frenchman could even nod to the Englishman, Alexandrie grabbed his arm and dragged him out, starting to talk about photographing beautiful scenarios.

Francis didn't hear her. He got a weird feeling that something irreversible had happened, that he had somehow come to a turning point of something, but of what, he couldn't say. The feeling was somewhat disturbing, and he couldn't shrug it off for the rest of the evening.

xXx

"Fuck. Fuck! Fucking _shit_, don't you do this to me now!"

But it did. What exactly did what, Arthur wasn't really sure, but what he knew instead was that life must fucking hate him. Why else would his current location be in the middle of nowhere, alone in winter night's darkness, his phone's battery dead and his car's back tire broken?

The day had began relatively well. He had a day off from work, and as he had not seen Alfred, one of his rare friends in France for a long time (though Alfred wasn't French – he was American, which was hardly any better an option), he had driven to spend the they with him. The problem was that Alfred lived in a different town than Arthur, and it took over an hour's time to drive there. Well, it wasn't _normally_ a problem – but it was a problem _now_, when Arthur was stuck on the road somewhere in-between the two towns, only fields and some forest surrounding him.

"Fuck my life," Arthur grumbled and gave the broken tire a malicious kick for a good measure. Great. Fucking great. What would he do now? He would not walk anywhere in the dark, thank you very much, but waiting and hoping that someone would drive his way was almost equally terrible an option. What were the odds that someone would be on the road so late on a Thursday night? Besides, the night was cold, and the longer Arthur kept waited, the colder he kept getting.

There weren't many things to entertain oneself with in Arthur's situation, so the Englishman got into his car, leant back on the front seat, and let his thoughts wander freely. He had left the triangle sign on the road, so if someone really passed by, they would notice that something was amiss whether he was standing on the side of the road or sitting in his car.

Arthur thought of England. He thought about his family, his mother and father, his older brothers. Lord, would his brothers ever hear of his plight, they would have a jolly good laugh at his expense. He thought of his home town back in England, his real home, and he imagined hearing his native language all around him, not French. He pictured the old couple who had been his neighbours in his home town, remembered the delicious scones they had always served him whenever he had popped in for a visit. They had given their scone recipe to Arthur on hearing of his departure for France, but somehow he had never got them right. Arthur liked to think that his scones were always ruined by the French air, but deep inside he did know and admit that he had never been one for cooking.

Arthur opened his eyes and looked at the starry sky. He was homesick. He felt he didn't fit in among the French, and it wasn't easy for him to socialise with strangers anyway, especially when he had to communicate in a language that wasn't his native one.

A flash of light in the rear mirror caught Arthur's attention and cut off his musings. A car! Someone was coming his way! He wouldn't freeze to death in the middle of nowhere! He would be saved!

Arthur saw how the approaching car slowed down as it passed Arthur's car, then parked on the side of the road a bit ahead. Arthur opened the front door and stiffly climbed out of his car to meet his saviour. Someone got out of the stopped car and a man approached Arthur. The Englishman walked to meet him, but as soon as he was close enough to distinguish the man slightly better, he halted abruptly. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered to himself. No. Not him. Anyone but him.

The approaching man stopped, too. "You," he said, voice full of disbelief. Then he laughed. "_You_!"

Yes, life definitely hated Arthur.

The all too familiar, lean form of the damned Frenchman walked up to stand right before Arthur. The blue eyes sparkled with amusement as they observed the Englishman, and a chuckle broke free from his chest. "I can't believe this," the man said. "To think that it actually were _you,_ of all people, alone here in trouble."

Arthur was not amused. He mentally fumbled for words but found none; the situation was too surreal. It just wasn't possible.

"On the other hand," the Frenchman continued, "I shouldn't be surprised." He eyed the Englishman's car over his shoulder. "Especially if it involves you and cars."

"Very funny," Arthur managed, vexed and embarrassed at the same time. "Well, will you help me as well, or will you just be laughing at me?"

The Frenchman held up his palms in a diplomatic manner. "I'll help you, I'll help you," he assured the Englishman in the least assuring a tone, but then he got serious. "All right, it's cold here," he said as if had only then noticed it. "So what's wrong here?"

"My back tire," Arthur said simply.

"Oh. Well have you called some help?"

"The battery is dead."

"Oh." The Frenchman uttered a laughter. "Bad luck."

The situation was getting on Arthur's nerves. First, he had been waiting for help for almost two hours and he was cold and hungry. Second, he felt uncomfortable around the Frenchman, especially in such a deserted area. There were no other people nearby to be distracted with or hide behind, and that's why the situation felt oddly intimate. And third, every time they had met before had been in hostile circumstances, one of then ruining something for the other. But this time it wasn't so; this time Arthur could hardly blame his misfortune on the Frenchman, so theoretically he had no reason to be angry at him – and yet he didn't know how not to be. It was just too weird. The sooner it was over, the better.

"Yeah. So can you lend me your phone? I have to get my car towed."

"Sure." The Frenchman made to fish his phone from his pocket, but then halted. "Wait," he said instead. "I might have some rope in my trunk. Might be we won't have to call to the tow service."

Arthur swallowed his objections. It would be much cheaper for him to accept the Frenchman's offer than to call the service centre, even if mentally more uncomfortable.

However, that plan didn't work out. "Seems I don't have it after all," the Frenchman shouted from his own car – the very same that Arthur had crashed into the very first time they had met.

"Can't be helped," he muttered, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. The Frenchman came to him again. "Bad luck," he said, shrugging. Then he winked at Arthur. "Must be your influence."

Arthur had been standing too long in the cold to be amused or even provoked. "Must be," he uttered dryly. "Can I have your phone, please?"

The Frenchman seemed to notice that Arthur wasn't in the mood. "I'm sorry," he said without any signs of mockery. He dialled the number on his phone and put it to his ear. "Let me call," he said while waiting for an answer. "Might be better."

Arthur made no objections. He buried his hands deep in his pockets and tried not to shiver. It would be a long wait. Even though a truck would be sent their way immediately, it would take almost an hour for it to arrive. And then he would have to put up with arrogant drivers who would blame everything on him because he was English (or because at that point he would be rude towards them, which he undeniably would, but that was beside the point).

"Thank you, bye," he heard the Frenchman say on the phone and turned to him. "So?"

"They will send someone for us within twenty minutes, so we have about an hour's wait."

Arthur arched his eyebrow (which he really shouldn't do since his eyebrows attracted enough negative attention as they were). "We?"

The Frenchman blinked at him, seemingly as surprised at himself as Arthur. "Well, yes. I can't leave you here alone, can I?"

"You really don't have to stay."

"Of course I won't stay if it bothers you. Do you want me to leave?"

There was no mischief, no mockery, no irritation in the Frenchman's voice, and again Arthur thought how weird it was. Of course he bothered him! And yet he heard himself say, "No, it's okay."

"Very well then." The Frenchman rubbed his palms together to get some heat. "Have you been waiting here for long?"

"Nearly two hours if I'm not mistaken."

"Two _hours_?" The Frenchman's eyes widened and Arthur took some kind of twisted satisfaction in his shocked expression; the Frenchman had been there for only ten minutes or so and he was cold already, but Arthur had stood there for two hours and was even colder, so that made him a winner, sort of...

"Let's get into my car," the Frenchman suggested. "I have a sweater there, don't need it myself and you must be freezing." Not waiting for an answer, he started to make his way to his car, expecting Arthur to follow. Which he did. Wearing that frog's sweater sounded suspicious, but it could easily beat freezing his arse off.

The Frenchman had already sat on the driver's seat, so Arthur sat on the passengers seat and accepted the offered sweater. It was warm and had a faint, pleasant scent on it.

"Thanks," Arthur said.

"No problem," the Frenchman replied.

"Hm," Arthur said to say something.

The Frenchman started drumming the windowsill with his fingers.

Arthur stared counting minutes to the arrival of the truck.

"Oh!" Francis suddenly exclaimed. "I've been meaning to... I mean those twenty Euros you lent me a couple of weeks ago. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Here, let me pay you back."

"No need to, really," Arthur assured him. He'd rather forget the whole thing ever happened.

"No, I-"

"Let's say that it's a refund for your help now."

The Frenchman frowned. "I didn't stop to help for money."

"Well neither did I, so let's then forget it."

"As you wish then."

Silence took over the car again and Arthur resumed counting minutes.

"Listen," the Frenchman broke the silence again, "We haven't even introduced ourselves." He chuckled a bit. "We've been bumping into one another several times recently and I'm starting to feel like I know you, even when I don't." He offered his hand. "Francis Bonnefoy."

Arthur grabbed it. "Arthur Kirkland."

"Pleasure to meet you."

Arthur couldn't help uttering a laughter. "I think this is the first time when it actually is, more or less."

The blue-eyed blond beside him gave a laughter as well. "Yes, we might have, how do they say, got off on the wrong foot."

"Or maybe we got off on the right foot and you just are like that naturally."

The Frenchman – Francis – raised his eyebrow. "Excuse me? I'm like what?"

_Well said, Arthur_. "Actually, that was my attempt for a joke."

"Oh. Silly of me not to realise that."

How could one make a conversation with that man? There was a barrier of awkwardness between them, and Arthur felt that the Frenchman was aware of it, too. Any attempts to get rid of it only resulted in more awkwardness, so Arthur resolved to being awkwardly silent in favour of being awkward and embarrassed over something he said.

However, it was easier said than done. Silence weighed heavily upon Arthur's shoulders, and soon he blurted out the first things he could come up with in order to lighten the mood. "So," he started. "Why is it that you happened to drive this way?"

"I was visiting my parents."

"Oh."

"What about you?"

"I was visiting my friend."

"I see."

And the silence again. Small-talk could be bloody difficult at times.

And so the time passed, alternating between awkward silence and awkward small-talk. When the truck finally arrived, it arrived none too early – and the men in it were none too amused. They told off Francis Bonnefoy for careless driving (Arthur did not correct them, but neither did the Frenchman, despite sending him a pointed look), towed the Englishman's car on the truck stage and informed them that they would take the car to their garage. Arthur could go and get it back on the following day, repaired.

"Are you taking him home?" the men asked Francis, who said that he was, and so Arthur found himself in the Frenchman's car again.

"Finally," Francis muttered. "Homewards we go."

"I'm sorry for the trouble," Arthur said, disliking the feeling of being in debt to the Frenchman. "I can pay for-"

"_Non_, I'll have none of that. We already agreed you wouldn't pay."

"Right."

Fortunately, now that the car was in the movement, they could turn the radio on, and so the silence wasn't disturbing Arthur in the same way as earlier. Francis didn't attempt any conversation either, and so both remained silent, listening to the music or just focusing to driving.

Francis had turned the heating up and Arthur was still wearing the Frenchman's sweater, so he was feeling pleasantly warm and cosy, and as the night was dragging on closer two two in the morning, it was no wonder that the Englishman's eyelids became heavier and heavier. He drowsily gazed at the road before them, trying not to doze off. The truck with his car had been left far behind.

But then Arthur's eyes caught something on the road. "Watch out!" he cried without a second thought. Immediately on hearing his shouted warning Francis hit the brakes and with relief Arthur saw that the rabbit that had run across the road made it safely to the other side and disappeared between the bushes. That was about all he had time to notice before Francis apparently lost control of his car on the icy road, and before they could even blink, they found themselves in the ditch beside the road.

One.

Two.

Three. Three seconds before the Frenchman turned to Arthur. "How do you do it?" he asked, and now the Englishman could hear again that tinge of suppressed rage that he had become so familiar with during his past meetings with the Frenchman. "Why is it that every time, _every damned time_, something bad happens to me when you are around?"

Did that frog seriously have the nerve to accuse him of what had happened? "Are you fucking serious?" Arthur spat, safely annoyed again. "It's you who lost control!"

"You disturbed me with your yelling! I thought that there was something on the road and tried to avoid it!"

"There _was_ something on the road!"

Francis crossed his arms. "Well, what? I didn't see anything."

"Are you blind?" Arthur ranted. "The likes of you shouldn't be allowed to even drive if you are this careless on the road! No wonder I crashed into your car back then!"

"Excuse me?" the Frenchman shouted back. "And now it's my fault? You turned on the wrong lane! You don't even know the traffic rules! And I think that this incident today just proved that it's you who shouldn't be allowed to drive!"

"It isn't my fault that you Frenchies don't know how to drive!"

"You English just think that the world keeps turning according to your rules, don't you?"

Both men glared at one another, neither of them ready to admit defeat. Finally Francis turned the car back on. "Whatever. I'm going to get the car back on the road."

That, however, proved not to be quite so easy. They hadn't crashed into anything when the car had fallen off the road, but the ditch was just deep enough that Francis couldn't get the car moving; the tires got no friction in the snow.

"_Merde_," he muttered, then shot a glance at Arthur. "Are you happy now?"

Arthur was just about to start another verbal battle, but Francis was quicker and cut him off before he even started. "Someone has to go and push the car."

Somehow Arthur had very little doubt of who that 'someone' ought to be in the Frenchman's opinion. After a short battle of stares he finally opened the passenger's door and got out of the car – not because the stupid frog, being the owner of the car, had an upper hand in the matter, but because he would probably be too weak to try and push the car moving.

But even with Arthur pushing the car, it proved to be a fruitless attempt to get it back on the road. The Frenchman got out of the car as well and the two men stood side by side, glaring at the car and at each other and trying to force the car on the road by sheer willpower.

"Well," Arthur said finally. "It's not that bad. The truck should be here soon, they can tow us back on the road."

The Frenchman shook his head. "I bet they'll be very glad to do that."

And he was right; when the truck reached them and saw the plight there were in, they did tow Francis' car back on the road – but not without first hauling the Frenchman over the coals.

"How did you even manage to get there?" the very annoyed truck driver demanded to know.

Francis turned to Arthur and raised his eyebrows, as if telling him now to explain himself and convince the men of his innocence in the matter. Arthur frowned in response.

"There was something on the road," he said defiantly.

"And what exactly?"

"A... a rabbit."

All the eyes turned on him. "A rabbit?" one of the men repeated. "Are you telling me that you risked it for a _rabbit_?"

Arthur looked them in the eyes, unblinking, though he had to admit that the three truck men looked rather intimidating. "Yes."

Then it was Arthur's turn to receive a a good telling off about safety and priorities on the road, and then Francis was scolded again for listening to him (especially after they realised he was an Englishman), but finally they could continue driving home. The rest of the journey passed if not in a pleasant atmosphere, then at least without any unfortunate mishaps. Both Francis and Arthur were sulking, and when Francis finally stopped the car in front of the block-of-flats where Arthur was living, the top emotion of Englishman was relief.

"Well then," he said and made to open the door.

"Wait," Francis said. Arthur's hand froze on the door handle and carefully he looked over to the Frenchman. What did he want now? A reward? Money?

"My sweater," the man said instead, pointing at Arthur's chest.

"Oh, right." How could he have been so stupid? It proved to be very embarrassing to strip before the Frenchman's eyes (though he made a point of not looking directly at him), but Arthur went through it with all the dignity he could muster. When the sweater was folded on the back seat and Arthur's coat was back on him, there was nothing to stop him from finally ridding himself of the obnoxious Frenchman. Nothing – but an awkward feeling that something should be said or done before he left.

Apparently Francis had a similar feeling. He tapped the steering wheel and said, "Well." As he said nothing else, Arthur remembered a phrase rather suitable for the situation. "Thanks," he said.

"Don't mention it."

All right, it was definitely time to go. "Well then," Arthur said again and reached for the handle once more. "Good night."

"_Bonne nuit_," the Frenchman said and grinned.

Arthur opened the door. The he halted and looked back at Francis. He got a feeling that perhaps he should offer the Frenchman a cup or tea or coffee, as a small thank you for helping him. That would be only appropriate, wouldn't it? Should he invite him over? But then again, wouldn't it be a bit too weird? Besides, it was too late for that, Francis probably just wanted go to sleep already.

Francis looked at him expectantly and he cleared his throat. _Just ask if he fancies some tea and be done with it! At least then you won't be in debt to him._

"I-" he began, but precisely that moment a melodious tune cut him off. "Huh."

The Frenchman frowned just a bit and gave Arthur an apologetic look. "Sounds like my phone."

"Yes, well, I guess I was just going to say thanks again," Arthur quickly blurted and got out of the car. "So. Good night." He didn't give the Frenchman time to answer (not that he expected an answer) and closed the door behind himself. Without looking back he entered the building and got into the lift.

"Good," he said to himself. "Now that's over." He looked at himself in the mirror. "Probably his girlfriend," he explained to his reflection. "No one else would call at this hour." He frowned at the expression of his reflection. "Not that I care," he added to make things clear between them.

When he got into his apartment and accidentally happened to glance out of the window, Francis' car was already gone.

xXx

After the nightly incident on the road, Arthur hadn't seen a trace of the blue-eyed Frenchman. Not that it bothered him – it was simply a bit weird, because since their very first encounter they had bumped into one other at least once in two weeks. But now winter had already started turning to spring and Arthur hadn't caught a glimpse of the Frenchman for almost a month. Again, not that it bothered him! He was simply making observations.

"Here or takeaway?"

"Takeaway, please." Well, at least without the Frenchman he could live his life without a fear of something bad happening. Like now. He was enjoying his day off from work, it was sunny outside, and though the streets were wet due to melting snow, the weather was overall good. There hadn't been that much snow to begin with.

Paying for his ordered tea, Arthur idly contemplated what he should do next. He had two winning options: either he could go to his favourite antiquarian bookshop, or then he could take a walk in a park. Or then he could first go for a walk and then to the bookshop. Settling for the last option, Arthur exited the café and headed for the park, sipping the hot liquid in the paper mug. It was going to be a good day.

Or not.

As Arthur was about to turn around a corner, someone ran into him from behind it, bumping hard against him. Arthur managed to keep his balance and didn't fall, but despite the lid on the mud, some tea spilled on his bare hand, burning the skin. "Shit!" the Englishman cried and took a better look at the person who had caused the accident – the young woman blinked at him, collecting her purse from the pavement. "I'm terribly sorry," she blabbered in French, "but I have to run!" Which she did. Arthur looked after her, rolling his eyes, then dried his hand with a napkin he had taken back at the café. "People these days..." he muttered to himself and turned to continue his way.

Which was how _he_ bumped into someone. This time his mug of tea did fall from his hands, and it landed on the leg of the other person. Arthur raised his eyes to apologise, but words died in his mouth as he saw just who he had bumped into. Of course, Arthur shouldn't have been surprised; he should have known that sooner or later, he would meet his nemesis again, and in circumstances not different from the current ones. And in spite of all of that, all he could do was stare at Francis Bonnefoy without any coherent thing to say in his mind.

Francis, however, seemed to be exactly as dumbfounded as Arthur. He stared first at Arthur, then at his shoes and slightly tea-stained jeans, then at Arthur again. And then, unexpectedly, he burst into mirthful, uncontrollable laughter. Arthur kept staring at him, slowly coming back to his senses, and raised his eyebrow. "Had I known you enjoy getting tea on your shoes I would have done it earlier," he commented, feeling the corners of his mouth tugging up into a grin.

The Frenchman wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "How- how is-" he started to say, but broke into laughter once again. Arthur listened to him, trying to maintain an unaffected expression, but found that to extremely hard; laughter was contagious. And so the two men stood in the middle of the street and laughed.

Finally Francis calmed down enough to speak. "You are an odd one," he said, shaking his head. "You really have the talent, don't you?"

"Someone has to," Arthur replied with a grin. "But I don't believe it's only me. I lost my tea, thanks to you."

The Frenchman raised his eyebrows and considered him for a moment. Then a smile spread on his lips. "Listen," he said. "You clearly need a new tea and I haven't had my coffee yet, so how about we go to some nice café and for once have a proper conversation or something?"

Arthur tilted his head. "Are you sure you dare?" he asked. "After all, none of our previous encounters could be called particularly pleasant."

The Frenchman smiled. "Precisely. And that is why I find it's about time that we got to know each other a bit better. I'm fairly sure that I've seen some potential in you for you to become a decent human being."

Arthur snorted. "I'm yet to find the same in you."

Francis laughed again. "I'm giving you a chance to." He looked Arthur in the eyes. "So, what say you?"

Arthur considered for a moment. Was he really certain that he wanted to get better acquainted with this Frenchman, who had always been part of his late mishaps in some way or another, often even the cause of them?

The answer was obvious. He met the blue eyes and grinned. "Absolutely."

X


End file.
